Michael JECKS - The Crediton Killings

“You’re talking rubbish,” sneered the other soldier. “You’ve been drinking sour ale! There were men in that hall, and they’d have seen…”

“Those drunken sots wouldn’t have noticed if the King himself had passed by! I’m telling you what I saw: Henry and John went in – twice. Maybe I’m wrong, maybe they didn’t do it. Maybe they just went in and got lost in all those rooms. Maybe they didn’t steal the silver, and they might not have killed the girl – but I reckon they had as much chance as poor young Cole.”

“But why would they put the blame on Cole? They’ve hardly had time to grow to dislike him,” asked Edgar superciliously.

“You pathetic little man!” Wat sputtered contemptuously. “What about Cole’s brother? You know he was in this band, and that he died in a battle – just after he’d won a hostage? And after he died, Henry and John managed to take over his prize and keep the money. If Cole hasn’t found that out already, he soon will. Maybe he ain’t as bright as you, little man, and maybe he’ll begin to wonder whether the pair of them might have seen his brother Thomas with his hostage and decided that the profit was too much for a youngster. Maybe he’ll wonder whether his brother died from a knife in the chest or a dagger in the back; maybe he’ll wonder whether his new friends were lying when they said they liked his brother. And just maybe, the two of them thought their lives would be easier without him in the way.”

“And maybe Cole did steal the silver, and maybe Cole was interrupted halfway through by the girl, and he did the first thing that came into his head and killed her.”

“And maybe pigs will sprout wings and fly like rooks! If he did that, why did he bother to join the band?”

“To find out what had happened to his brother, like you said.”

“So why did he steal the silver before he had done anything about it?”

“What?”

“You’re so bright, little man, you tell me,” Wat sneered. “If you’d been wondering what had happened to your brother for years, just when you had a chance to find out, would you immediately rob someone else?”

“Maybe he had found out.”

“So he put himself outside the law before he wreaked vengeance on them. He’s obviously not much brighter than you, is he?”

“So you think it couldn’t have been Cole? Are you saying it was Henry and John?” Edgar demanded.

“That’s for your master to decide, isn’t it?”

Eyes slitted as he surveyed Wat, Edgar nodded slowly.

Simon was bored. The men were cautious in their answers, and Baldwin was having to work to tease every detail he could from them; for the bailiff, it was dull. There was no verbal interplay, just a detailed questioning, with the knight checking their story and the two giving noncommittal, one-word replies.

The bailiff found his attention wandering. At the nearest bench he could see Hugh and Edgar talking to an older man, while others looked on suspiciously. The men polishing armor had gone. The armorer was still whetting his sword with his stone, but it was a listless motion; his mind was not on the metal before him, and with the sun at its hottest, Simon was not surprised. Even under the elm it was stiflingly hot, with not a breath of air to stir the leaves.

Standing, he made his way over to the inn, intending to ask for a drink, but when he peered into the buttery, he found the innkeeper’s wife asleep in a chair, head back, and mouth wide open, issuing small snores and gasps. He smiled, then left her in peace. Wondering where her husband was, he walked to the hall and glanced inside. Three men sat at the dais, playing dice. They had been placed there by Sir Hector, and would allow no one to pass.

Simon did not attempt to test their resolve. He walked out, past the pantry and leaned on the doorframe which gave out onto the street.

The sight of Crediton High Street never ceased to give him pleasure. He had visited many other towns, even been to the city of Exeter twice, and in comparison, Crediton, he thought, was perfect. It bustled, without intimidating visitors by its size. Other places were too large, and their alleys and streets were potential traps to the unwary, but in Crediton everyone knew everybody else, and it was safe to mingle with the crowd. As he watched, young merchants and tradesmen rushed past, going about their business; canons walked by, disdainfully avoiding the manure in their path; a hunter with rough shirt and leather jerkin strode proudly with dogs at his heels; the wife of a rich burgess strolled past, her maid carrying her heavy blue cloak. Simon smiled and nodded at them, but the wife ignored him, thinking he might be drunk. The maid gave him a twinkling smile from the corner of her eye which made up for her mistress’s rudeness.

He crossed his arms. At first he had thought that the killing and theft would be enough to keep his interest, but already his mind was turning from the fate of the man in the jail and moving back to his wife.

Margaret had always been all he had ever wanted in a wife. She was attractive, intelligent, and a calming influence on him in his more angry moments when he had been locking horns with the miners who had colonized the moors. He had loved her from the first moment he had seen her, and had never regretted their marriage. She had given him the two principle joys of his life: Edith and Peterkin. But now Peterkin had gone, so had much of his zest for life. He no longer had the patience he once had when Edith played in the house, and could not even speak to Margaret about his sense of loss.

It was easier, he felt, to keep his emotions locked away. He preferred to avoid discussion of Peterkin because he knew it would entail her talking and him being evasive. It would be different if they had many children, but it seemed difficult for them: two children with some years between them, and a series of miscarriages. He was not sure that she would be able to bear him another son, and it was that which hurt: not that he wanted a new wife, but he was sad not to have a son with whom he could play, whom he could educate and train.

Hearing a high-pitched scream, he sprang forward, then forced himself to relax. It was only a boy laughing. For some reason, Simon felt his scalp tingle with anticipation. When another cry of delight rang out, he followed the sound, almost unwillingly.

Giggles and squeals of pleasure issued from the alleyway down alongside the jail, and he crossed the road, shouldering people out of the way. At the entrance he stood and peered inside. Washing hung limply from tired, slack lines, and beneath, all was dark. After the bright sun in the street, he had to blink. There, a short way inside the alley was the woman and son whom he had rescued from the soldier.

Roger had seen the bailiff cross the street, and now he strolled after him. The interrogation was dull for him as well.

At the alley entrance he saw Simon hesitate. The bailiff was wondering whether to leave before the woman saw him – or to go up and speak to her. She saved him the choice. Looking up as his shadow darkened the entrance, she gave a small cry, holding out her arms, and the boy rushed to her protection, throwing his skinny arms round her neck and whimpering. Simon quickly realized that he must seem a menacing figure, with the sun behind him and his features hidden. He smiled, moving back so that the sun caught his face, and held his hands a little way from his body to show he was not holding a weapon.

She was wearing the same worn and frayed gray tunic, a cord tied round her waist to give it a semblance of shape. As his eyes began to adjust, he saw that she had a thin, ravaged face, little more than a gray skull, from which sunken eyes stared back with near-panic. Wispy strands of pale hair hung dispiritedly from beneath her wimple. Cradling her child, she stared up at him as if convinced he was about to attack her, and her fear was all too plain.